


Begin Again

by Schwoozie



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Couch Cuddles, F/M, Kastle Christmas Secret Santa Gift Exchange, Post-Season/Series 01, Reunions, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-26 16:22:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13239519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schwoozie/pseuds/Schwoozie
Summary: Weeks after Frank left her shaken and devastated in a hotel elevator, Karen finds herself in need of a friend. What follows could mean a new beginning for both of them.





	Begin Again

**Author's Note:**

  * For [evil bunny wolf (evil_bunny_king)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/evil_bunny_king/gifts).



> This is my DREADFULLY late Kastle Secret Santa gift for [devilbunnyking](http://devilbunnyking.tumblr.com/). Happy 2018, friend :)
> 
> I have no idea how many chapters this will be. We're all on this ride together.
> 
> **Chapter Warning: The possibility of past non-consensual sex is raised; the sex, however, _was_ consensual.**

> _"The opposite of war isn't peace. It's creation." – Jonathan Larson_

Karen bounces up and down in her heels, rubbing the goosebumps that rise on her arms even though they're clammy with sweat. She's felt like that since she woke—hot, too hot for a winter day when half the people on the streets are wearing open winter jackets and the other half shiver in optimistically-light cardigans—and part of her, a part that's looking down at her body from very far away, worries about the sweat stains she can feel dampening her blouse, the beads of moisture along her hairline and under her nose. She'd pushed her face into the wind of the open window the whole cab ride over here—ignoring the glares the cabbie sent her through the mirror when he pointedly zipped his jacket all the way up at a stop-light—and her hair must be a goddamned mess. Her eyes feel dry and bloodshot.

Not the best way to make a first impression, but impressions aren't what she's looking for right now.

She's about to press the buzzer again when the door swings open.

The woman in front of her looks just different enough from the year-old photos she's familiar with that it takes Karen a few moments to recognize Micro's wife. A few more worry lines are etched into her forehead, and her hair is brown and cut to just above her shoulders, and she takes Karen in with a steady wariness that Karen wouldn't have believed the woman in those happy family photos capable of.

“Can I help you?” she asks.

“Are you...” Karen blanks on her name. The same hysteria that sent Karen hurtling out of _The Bulletin_ when Mitchell caught her vomiting into her trashcan for the third time this week is rising in her chest. She stumbles. “You're, I... your husband, is your husband home?”

Wariness tilts towards hostility and the woman's knuckles turn white around the doorframe. “Why are you asking?”

“I need...” Karen takes a deep breath, tries to gather her scattered thoughts, “I need to talk to him, he'll know who I am, my name, I need to find...”

Karen squeezes her eyes shut, willing the tears that have been choking her all morning back down into her chest. They spring up anyway and she opens her eyes, gasping.

In a moment, the woman— _Sarah_ , Karen remembers, _Lieberman, Sarah Lieberman_ —has softened, the door opening a little wider as she steps forward with concern.

“I'm sorry,” Karen says, “I'm not usually...”

“It's okay. Don't apologize.” Sarah raises a hesitant hand, puts it on Karen's shoulder. “He isn't here right now, he's at work, but I can call him. What's your name?”

“Karen. Karen Page. I–“

Karen sees recognition flare in Sarah's eyes before she's grabbing Karen by the arm and practically dragging her inside.

Karen blinks, looking around blindly as she hears the door close and lock behind her, following without resistance when Sarah takes hold of her arm again and leads her to a sofa.

Karen drops into it easily from her jellied legs, groaning softly when the sudden movement brings her nausea back. She leans forward until her forehead brushes her skirt, clutching her knees with white-knuckled hands.

“Karen... Karen, hey...”

A hand lands on her shoulder blade and Karen sits up carefully, swallowing deeply and praying that she isn't about to spew all over the Lieberman's coffee table. Sarah is sitting next to her, a glass of water in her hand. Karen takes it with a nod of thanks, sipping slowly. Sarah rubs Karen's back as she forces herself to keep going, no matter how much her stomach rolls. She gets about halfway through the glass before she has to stop, putting it on an abandoned coaster in front of her. Sarah's hand is still moving, warm and gentle, and Karen feels a little more calm.

“Thank you,” she says.

“Of course.” Sarah's hand stops on Karen's shoulder and Karen turns to look at her, sees those worry lines dug even deeper. “Are you in danger?”

Karen shakes her head. Guilt floods her when Sarah relaxes visibly.

“No, I'm–, god, I'm sorry, this has nothing to do with... no, there's no danger.”

“Good. Okay.” Sarah peers at her. “You're... Pete's Karen, right? The reporter?”

Karen feels tears flood her eyes again and she barks a laugh, pressing in on her temples. “Yeah. Pete's Karen. Yeah.” When she feels a little more in control of herself she looks back at Sarah. “He... I haven't seen him since... I talked with Agent Madani and she told me a little, that he's alive, but I don't have a way to contact him. Madani didn't give me anything, and the man he served with, Hoyle, he says he sees Fr–, Pete, but he doesn't have his number and I...” Karen takes a deep breath, bites her lip hard. She looks Sarah in the eye. “I'm not in danger. But I need to talk to him. I... I don't have anyone else.” Karen feels her face crumpling again and hates herself for it. “God, that's pathetic, isn't it?”

“No,” Sarah says. Karen's taken aback by the conviction in her voice. Sarah leans in closer, speaks more quietly. “No, it's not pathetic. For a while he was all I had too.” Her mouth quirks. “Of course, I didn't know he was living with my dead husband at the time, but... in the worst year of my life he made me feel less alone. Like there was someone I could rely on.” Sarah squeezes Karen's shoulder. “I'm going to call David right now and then you and I are going to have something to drink and watch some really bad daytime TV until Pete gets here. And based on what David's told me about you and Pete, that won't be long at all. Okay?”

“Okay,” Karen whispers. “I'll... I'll stick with water though. I have to stick with water.”

Karen sees a flicker of realization in Sarah's eyes before Karen turns away, groping for her glass and sipping, sipping, _please don't ask, don't ask, don't ask..._

“I'll call David.”

Karen squeezes her eyes shut. She has to swallow three times before she can speak.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

Karen's only known Sarah for a few minutes, but she knows enough to suspect Sarah understands the thanks is for more than a phone call.

* * *

Less than 20 minutes later, they're about to find out which house Mr. and Mrs. Hudson chose to buy with their $600,000 when five frantic knocks land on the front door. Karen jumps, scrambling to keep too much water from sloshing over the side of her glass.

“Didn't I tell you?” Sarah grumbles. She sets her own glass down and stands. Karen watches numbly as Sarah walks to the door.

When the door opens and his voice floats through— _“Where is she?” “Hey, Pete. You have to calm down before you come in, she's rattled enough.” “What the fuck is going on Sarah, I get a call from David telling me not to freak out–“ “Exactly, so stop freaking out–“ “–but Karen showed up on your fucking doorstep–“ “–and I'll let you in the house!”_ —Karen feels another surge of nausea and pushes herself to her feet, stumbling towards the kitchen.

She means to make for the back door—whether for the fresh air or to escape, she doesn't know—but ends up pressed against the refrigerator, the stainless steel a cool balm on her head. She struggles to focus on the sound of her own breathing, fast and deafening but still not enough to cover the cadence of his voice, his heavy boots on the hardwood.

 _This was your idea_ , Karen reminds herself. _It was this or set a date with Foggy's secretary's secretary, or invest in nine months of flowers to put in the window, hoping he'd show up... like he ever would, if he didn't think he had to save you from something._

Karen knows she's being unfair, monumentally unfair, but she's tried so hard to _be_ fair since the day he pulled himself out of that elevator and out of her life— _take care_ , he said, like he was absolving himself of her, like he's ever _taken care_ of her, like anyone has since Kevin died—and all the time since, worrying she'd never see him again, worrying that she would...

That he'd see her like this. That she'd need rescuing.

“Karen.”

The sound of her name yanks her out of her own head and makes her realize how _quiet_ it is; just the hum of the refrigerator against her face, the pipes under the sink gurgling softly, and beyond that the near-silent sound of his breathing. Like he's trying not to be there. Like he's half a ghost.

She turns around and her bitterness falls like bullet casings at her feet.

He's wearing a light black jacket over a grey knit shirt, jeans that could have come from anywhere. A felt scarf. His black boots. He looks good. His expression is a little wrecked, a little agitated, but that's par for the course with him; for such a stolid exemplum of the American man, he wears more of his heart on his sleeve than any person she's ever met. He isn't clean-shaven but he isn't teasing a Jean Valjean hipster look either. His beard is cropped like he takes the time to maintain it every other day. His hair is long enough that it's beginning to curl. There are few enough bruises that she can see the scars and beneath his concern she fancies he looks sorry.

Her eyes blur with tears but she blinks them away. One of them is always crying when they see each other. She'd like a day, just a day, when that isn't true.

It won't be this one. She knew it from the outset. But with him in front of her is proof that a man named Frank Castle exists and, save one of the many bullets with his name on it meeting its mark, will continue to exist for a long time.

Could exist at her side, maybe.

She never has given up her penchant for impossible dreams.

“Hi, Frank,” she says. She toys for a moment with hating how weak her voice sounds, but the way he regards her, steady even as his trigger finger twitches, melts her resolve. Tears spring to her eyes again and she doesn't try to stop them; slumps against the fridge and wraps her arms around her ribs and finally decides to let herself be.

“Hey,” he says. She thinks it's his own awkward attempt at echoing her greeting until he steps forward and steps forward again and then he's right in front of her and as close as he ever was. She closes her eyes when she feels the flutter of fingers on her elbow, his hand cupping her arm when she doesn't push him away. His thumb rubs back and forth across her bicep and for the first time in days she feels steady on her feet.

“Tell me what you need.“

She opens her eyes, the tension that's been pushing her shoulders towards her ears slowly releasing. She breathes out slowly. Just seeing him there, the lines of his face and his eyes, ever-moving and watchful, makes her smile.

“It's really good to see you.”

Frank's mouth twitches and she feels overwhelmed all over again. He must see it in her face; his smile fades and before she can draw in a full breath he's pulling her forward, the hand on her arm moving to her back and the other cupping her head, tangling in her hair and pressing her face into his neck. She breathes out and in and it's like he's inside her, the smell of coffee and the river and _him_ filling her senses. His grip is just this side of painful and she hasn't appreciated pain like this in a long, long time.

“Frank,” Karen whispers into his skin. “I'm pregnant.”

She throws her arms around him and holds him through the stunned silence.

* * *

His name, funnily enough, was Peter. Nothing to do with Frank's alias; she met him on her birthday several weeks before Frank came back into her life, when an off-hand comment to Foggy about her birthday plans amounting to treating herself to a re-watch of _Chinatown_ and a top-shelf bottle of gin had him dragging her to the kind of club his fancy firm gives him access to. First she drank to relax and then she drank to forget and before it even hit midnight a man named Peter had his tongue down her throat and a hand inside her panties, backing her into a dim and curtained alcove built just for their purpose.

It _was_ that kind of club.

Frank listens to her story as intently as he's ever listened to her, but she finds herself unused to it, and a little shy under the power of his attention. Part of it is the subject matter, but more is that she doesn't even know if he wants to be here. If finding her safe and sound was enough for him and now he's waiting anxiously for permission to leave.

But no matter what he's thinking, he's here. That's more than she can say for anyone else in her life.

“You were drunk–“

“I wasn't that drunk,” Karen says, cutting off the train of thought she knows Frank is falling into. He still looks tense so she leans forward, wrapping her hand around his on his knee until the tick in his jaw subsides and he's looking at her again. He flexes his hand when she takes hers back.

They're on the Lieberman's couch. When they emerged from the kitchen Sarah'd taken one look (likely to make sure Frank wasn't about to storm off with a machine gun) before retreating upstairs to give them privacy. After her brief cry into Frank's shoulder Karen is feeling more clear-headed than she has since she first realized exactly how far she'd fallen off her cycle, and she's already penciling “send Sarah a fruit basket” into her mental to-do list. A bottle of nice wine, at least.

“You sure, Karen? If he took advantage–“

“He didn't,” Karen assures him again. “I've never done anything like that before, but I wanted to. Needed to.”

“Why?”

“To prove to myself I could do it. To be someone else for a night. I don't know. But I remember wondering if I should stop and deciding not to, so... no, he didn't take advantage.”

“Didn't wear a condom either,” Frank mutters.

“Nobody's perfect.” Frank snorts. Karen smiles to herself for making him laugh. “It's fuzzy after that, but I woke up alone in my own bed with a text from Foggy that I was now at the top of his list for people responsible for getting his drunk ass home. Nothing about Peter. I don't think Foggy even knows what happened. It all seemed ok, so I just... forgot.” She glances at him through her eyelashes. His face has fallen back into a worried scowl and it's almost unbearable how much she misses his smile. “Then, you know. You showed up asking for money so I had bigger things to worry about.”

Frank's mouth quirks, just like she hoped it would. It only lasts a moment, but it still makes her chest feel full and warm.

She likes that look on him. That lightness, a humor she's only seen him display around her. She knows that she's missed a great deal since he saved her at the hotel. Suspects that David Lieberman knows this side of him too; maybe even Sarah, if they're so comfortable letting him into their home. But Frank's public face, the face of The Punisher—in the hospital room with Matt and Foggy, in the courthouse, every time he's appeared in the news—he's never shown an inkling of this man inside of him. Only when they were alone did he let down his guard. Forget, maybe, the pain of what she helped him remember.

When they're done with this, she'll ask who else has earned that smile. Who she has to thank for looking after him when he decided she shouldn't.

She realizes that it's been several minutes since either of them spoke and she's been staring at him the whole time. He doesn't look affronted, though, or uncomfortable.

He looks sad.

She looks down at her lap. Picks at the fabric over her stomach. She isn't showing yet, but it can't be long now until she is. It's almost time to swing towards the warmer months and the bump will become harder and harder to hide, especially with her build and the clothes in her closet. Maybe she'll buy some muumuus and tell everyone she's changing her style. Switch out her pencil skirts for slacks that sit at her hips.

She squeezes her eyes shut as tears well up again. Out of all the unexpected things she could be going through... Maybe that's the hardest part. She thought she'd gone through enough that nothing the world could throw at her would be surprising anymore.

This isn't surprising. It's impossible. Of all the bad situations she could get herself into, this wasn’t even a blip on her radar.

Warmth envelops her hand and her head jerks up. Her fingers look tiny in Frank's palm. Frank's hand is like one giant callus, scraping against the few of her own that she's built up at the gun range and practicing self defense with Trish. When he runs his thumb across her knuckles the gesture is so gentle that the roughness of his skin doesn't even register.

She meets his gaze and he's much closer than he was. Leaning towards her, eyes flicking across her face. She's very conscious of the tears on her cheeks; imagines he is too, the way he seems to keep looking at them. She bites her lip and fights the impulse to sag against him. Let someone else hold her up for once.

Frank isn't Matt. He wouldn't think any less of her for it.

“Tell me what you need, Karen.”

Just like in the kitchen, the words break what little self possession she has, and she slumps forward, her forehead pressing into the hard muscle of his shoulder as his arm circles her back, pulling her closer. She feels his breath on her ear and then on her neck, moments before his lips flutter against her skin. He draws back for a beat as if to judge her reaction; when she doesn't give him one, he breathes out roughly and presses his lips more firmly against her. He doesn't move them like a kiss, but she feels soothed the same as if he means it as one. Being close—him wanting her close—gives her the courage to say what comes next.

“I need a friend,” she whispers. She licks her lips and lifts her head so she can look him in the eye. When their gazes meet he doesn't waver. “And not the way we've been friends, or, or whatever it is we've been. I need you, someone, with me. _With me_. Can you do that? I won't fault you if you can't, but I need to know–”

“Yes,” he interrupts. As she watches, he swallows and pulls his arm from around her, presses his thumb against a spot on her cheek where a tear has dried. Her eyelashes flutter at the rough warmth. “Yeah, Karen. I'll do that.”

Karen's mouth twitches and she falls forward again, raising her arms so she can hold him too. This time it's her lips that find his neck so he can feel as well as hear her whispered thanks. He doesn't reply except to shift his weight, relaxing them into the back of the couch so they don't need to worry about holding each other up.

For now there are no more tears. They only need to breathe.

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment and let me know what you think! You can also find me at [sail-not-drift](http://sail-not-drift.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr :)


End file.
